Knight in a Belstaff
by themightyflea
Summary: Heroes don't exist and if they did, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be one of them. However, when a phone call reveals that Molly's been kidnapped and held for ransom, there's only on thing left for him to do. Solve the case. Save the girl. Some knights wear shining armor, but for Sherlock Holmes, a Belstaff works just fine. A story by: GraceW & themightyflea
1. Chapter 1

_**NOTE:** **Before we begin**_

_Hello there, this is Angie. Check, one, two._

_Okay._

_So, first things first, I should tell you all that this story was written by the inimitable GraceW and themightyflea (that's me). It's a product of our combined creative efforts which basically means we spent hours upon hours brainstorming and writing this down. It was loads of fun to do, so we really hope you all enjoy it as much as we did._

_That's it. I won't pester you anymore. Thanks for reading!_

_Oh, and maybe leave a review? :) Always appreciated._

* * *

There was only the sound of her own ragged breathing when Molly woke up sprawled on the concrete floor in an empty storage room. Her head felt heavy, and it was pounding with what felt like the mother of all headaches. She groaned, turning on her side and taking shallow breaths to control the pain. _Where am I?_

The place wasn't her flat, and certainly not any other place she'd ever been to before. For that same reason, the location seemed of paramount importance to her. She grudgingly fluttered her eyes open and was met with nothing but blackness pressing in on her pupils. Her heartbeat quickened, and she concentrated on the next important question while she allowed her eyes to adjust. _How did I get here?_

Memories flashed inside her head as she blinked at the darkened room. She'd been at Bart's, working on her day off. Again. Sherlock had needed her to test some samples and she'd agreed to do it when she had free time. Saturday was her first day off. _Is it still Saturday?_

That wasn't very likely. It had been dark out when she'd left, and she'd decided to walk rather than take a cab. In retrospect, it had been a stupid decision, especially considering the dismal place she'd wound up in.

Molly's mind was crowded with all the things she could've done to avoid being in the position she was currently in. She could've taken a cab. Been more aware of her surroundings. Ignored the text alert on her phone. It was always Sherlock texting her nowadays with something new he wanted her to do. It could've waited.

Maybe if she'd done those things, she would've heard the car pulling up next to her on the sidewalk; heard the footsteps coming up behind her sooner; avoided the small pinch of the needle against her neck before everything went dark. _And I wouldn't be here._

Her eyes had finally adjusted, and she sat up slowly to examine the room. Brick walls; concrete floors; and the unmistakable damp smell of water nearby. Molly pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her head on her knees. Her head was still pounding, and she was confused, scared, and cold.

She didn't know why she was here, or who'd brought her here in the first place. There was only one possible reason she could think of, but she didn't want it to be true. Instead, she concentrated on keeping herself calm and warm, gathering as much information as she could about the place. If she was right, and somehow she really felt she was, she'd need all three to make it out alive.

The sound of a door opening somewhere in front of her made her look up and squint into the sudden flood of light. Her body tensed.

"Miss Hooper." The voice was gravelly, thick, and heavily accented. It sounded Russian, but she couldn't be sure until he spoke again. "I believe you have a phone call."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes let out a frustrated sigh as he scanned his emails. Nothing. No new clients. Lestrade hadn't called or texted with a new case. Of course it had been four hours since he had solved his last one. Gang related, nasty but a simple case the police were, of course, too inept to handle. But those four hours were an eternity for the bored detective.

Slamming the laptop closed with a bit more force that he probably needed, he grabbed his phone and flopped down on the couch in a huff. He started typing. _Molly Hooper, answer your phone. Did you save that liver I requested? SH_

Molly had been ignoring his texts all night. It was beginning to annoy him. He sent a different text._ I'm bored. Where are you? SH_

A reply sounded a few seconds later. _I'm in Dublin for a medical conference. I told you I was leaving. Weren't you listening? JW_

Sherlock frowned at the screen. _Of course not. When will you be back? SH_

_Wednesday morning. Can't you keep yourself out of trouble for three days? JW_

Sherlock didn't bother responding and instead curled himself on the couch. He needed something to do. He lay there for a total of three minutes before jumping up again and walking over his coffee table. John's gun had to be around here somewhere.

It was then than his phone started to ring. Sherlock's first thought was new case, since the only other person who actually called him was Mycroft. His brother was in a rather important meeting tonight and would not be making phone calls, much to Sherlock's amusement. The number was withheld, could still be a case because his number was on his website, but a little warning bell sounded in his head. He picked it up and answered it. "Hello."

"Mr. Holmes." The male's accent was heavy. Serbian.

"Yes. Can I help you?" Sherlock asked professionally.

"I believe we can help each other. I have your doctor. And in exchange, I would like you to relinquish all evidence from the case you just solved."

"John is out of the city, please call back when you have some real leverage." Sherlock snapped back, putting the phone down to hang up.

A deep chuckle sounded through the speaker and Sherlock brought it back up to his ear. "Your lady doctor. The pretty brown haired one that cuts up dead things for you."

Sherlock frowned, that's why she hadn't been answering his phone. "You have Molly Hooper."

"And I promise, I can do some unpleasant things to her if you do not do as I say." Sherlock could hear the man's smile through the phone and it made him angry.

"You want the evidence I compiled on your 'business' partner, who incidentally was responsible for two murders and several accounts of rape and abuse in the last year alone." Sherlock said calmly. "The evidence was given to the police when we arrested him earlier today. I cannot help you."

"You are a gifted man, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure you can find a way to retrieve it, I do have 'real leverage'."

"I want to speak to Molly. Now." Sherlock demanded. "And it must be two minutes or more, I don't appreciate being rushed."

The man chuckled again, but Sherlock heard a door and several voices in the background as he waited for Molly on the other side of the phone. He tapped his fingers impatiently.

"Hello?" Molly's voice was weak, but steady.

"Molly." Sherlock said quickly but calmly. "Have they hurt you? I need to know all the information you can gather on your location, even the smallest obscure detail. Watch what you say, these men are dangerous."

"No, I'm fine." Molly replied quickly. There was a pause before she spoke again. "It's just, you know, a little damp and very cold. You know how I hate these old buildings." Her tone had changed. It was too light to be genuine.

"Good. Sounds, what do you hear? What do you smell?" Sherlock said.

"At least I can get some thinking done, it's nice and quiet." Molly replied. "Do you need me to say anything to prove that I'm alright?"

Sherlock's mind was whirling, narrowing down the possibilities. He needed more information though. "Keep talking. Any other observations?"

"Well, it's not really a hotel, you know." Molly laughed, but the sound was hollow. "It's just me and some boxes down here. Printing paper, though, so maybe I can start writing my next piece. Might even get published."

"Perfect." Sherlock said calmly. "Don't do anything that could put you in danger. Don't be afraid. I will find you."

"I know." Molly replied, relief evident in her voice. "Be careful."

Sherlock heard a small squeak from Molly as the phone was jostled away from her. The man was back on the phone. "Mr. Holmes. I want the evidence by tomorrow night. I will text you directions when the time comes. Also, I shouldn't have to tell you, inform the police of this and you will be finding pieces of your lady doctor all over London." Pause. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

When the line went dead Sherlock tossed the phone onto his chair and began to pace. He had to narrow down the options. He had to think_. Old building, yes. Disused, more than likely. Damp and cold, not that unusual in London, but helpful. Quiet? Away from any major motorways or factories, that narrowed things down. Paper. Paper. Paper. Paper. Serbian gang movement. East? No, north. Water source nearby. Paper factory or distribution plant. Think!_The deductions, maps and thought process flashed in his mind as he reached several different conclusions. He needed more information. The CCTV footage.

With a hurried movement, he grabbed his Belstaff and scarf and ran down the stairs and out onto the street. Mycroft's office would have it. He did like to keep tabs on his little brother's most frequented locations, which was to Sherlock's advantage tonight. The area around St. Bart's was not an exception.

A taxi ride later, in which he was forced to endure the chattiness of his least favorite cabbie, and he was using his illegally copied key to break into Mycroft's office. Perhaps his brother would change the locks again, but it had only been four months since the last time.

As he stepped into the office, Sherlock briefly considered contacting Lestrade but quickly decided against it. This was something he could and would do alone. Molly's life depended on it. On the plus side, he wasn't bored now. He had a puzzle to solve, a task to complete.

The video footage, once he tracked it down, showed Molly leaving the hospital earlier that evening. He had to find the various cameras that caught her movement. The time stamp on the video that showed her actually being taken was two hours ago. The kidnappers knew where the camera was, because the vehicle was difficult to make out, aside from the fact that it was dark four door car. It also appeared they used a light sedative to take her without a fight. Subtract the time from the phone call and commute to the office, and she was taken one hour and ten minutes before they phoned. He calculated the places she could have been taken in that time frame, which ruled out some of the places further outside the city and narrowed it down to a few possibilities.

He was out the door as quickly as he entered, not even taking an extra second to reorganize his brother's pen collection, as was his usual.

He was about to flag down a taxi when he spotted Mycroft's second car, the one he used to pick people up to speak to at anytime at any obscure location. Sherlock would more than likely need it in case he had to make a quick getaway. It was justified and not the first time he had taken it for a joy ride. With the knowledge that he would receive a lecture from his brother, the detective stole the car, unable to suppress the mischievous grin he flashed to the security camera.

Half an hour of Saturday night London traffic later, Sherlock pulled the car under a busted streetlight across the street from his destination. The disused paper mill sat to the north of the city's center and was within the probable driving time specified on the video. A dark colored car and an old truck were the only vehicle around. This location was becoming more and more likely as he observed the layout, possibly a place of exchange of information, drugs, and other goods and services.

Determined, Sherlock crept towards the building, senses on alert and brain whirling with the possibilities.

* * *

Molly watched as the man left the room to finish up with the call. One, or more of those men would probably be back any minute, but she decided she would make the most of her time alone until then.

Picking herself up off the floor, Molly looked around, careful to take in the details this time. There wasn't all that much she could see, considering the light, or lack thereof, but that didn't mean she couldn't try. There was always _something_.

The door was a normal wooden door, Molly noticed as she stepped closer. She ran her hands over the surface, noticing the uneven texture, likely brought on from being in such a damp place for so long without any proper coating. In spite of that, the door still fit in the doorframe and it was heavy. Maybe too heavy for her to attempt an escape. She grimaced.

Moving on to the walls, Molly walked around the room, skimming the surface with her hands. She'd seen they were brick before, and now she confirmed it. There wasn't a lot she could do with that. Especially since the only thing that could even be considered a window was a barely discernible rectangle far back in the room. She frowned, walking over to examine it closely.

"Hm." She murmured thoughtfully. "No, too small."

The sound of the door opening behind her startled her out of her thoughts and she swiveled around to face the man who'd entered the room.

"Can I trust you to be a good girl and do as I say?" It was the same man who'd brought the phone only minutes ago. Molly straightened, finding that proper posture provided the slightest measure of control. Or at least, the illusion of it.

"Why should I do anything you ask?" Molly replied, keeping her voice as low and calm as possible. It was an honest question, but she didn't want to risk angering this man either. "I don't even know why I'm here. For all I know, you could be planning to kill me no matter what happens."

The man walked over to her, closing the distance between them but not moving to touch her at all. With the light filtering through the door it was hard to make out his features, but she could tell he wasn't young. Possibly in his fifties, and high up in whatever organization this was, judging by his clothes and perfume, which she recognized as an expensive, though not particularly appealing one. She wrinkled her nose.

"Because, Miss Hooper." He walked around her, taking hold of her ponytail and wrapping it once around his hand before pulling down on it. Her knees connected painfully with the floor and Molly bit her lip to keep from crying out. "There are things I can do to you what will have you begging for death with the last painful breath in your body."

The man leaned down until his face was just inches from hers, tightening his grip on her hair and pulling it further back. Molly gasped, but resisted the urge to struggle against him.

"Why don't I give you some time to think it over?" He smiled a bone chilling smile, unceremoniously letting go of her hair and straightening before strutting out of the room. She could still hear him chuckling when the door was closed behind him, leaving her in total darkness once more.

Molly took a deep, relieved breath when the man was gone. Making quick work of loosening her hair she sat down on the floor and braided it to the side. Her hands were shaking, but working with her braid made them steady and it allowed her to focus.

_Don't do anything that could put you in danger. Don't be afraid. I will find you._

Sherlock's words echoed around in her head and she focused on them. She needed to keep a cool head and her fear under control. Whatever this man asked of her, she needed to comply and buy Sherlock some time. If anything, she could at least avoid getting herself killed before he had a chance to find her. Because he _would_ find her, she thought fiercely.

Molly finished with her braid and pulled her legs up to her chest again, wrapping her arms around them. She repeated the words like a mantra, taking intermittent deep breaths until the initial panic had subsided. The minutes passed, Molly wasn't sure how many, but eventually the door opened once again. She tensed, her eyes squinting against the light as the same man walked in with two other men following close behind him. Her heartbeat immediately accelerated.

"Change of plans, Miss Hooper." He loomed over her and Molly had to tilt her head back to look at him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Powerlessness.

"I'm sorry?" Molly frowned, instinctively drawing her legs nearer to her body.

"Oh, good girl. You've got the hang of it already." He put his hands in his pockets and grinned at her before he continued. "Whether or not you decide to cooperate is now entirely optional, though a healthy dose of insolence on your part will be preferred. I fear we'll need something a bit more dramatic if your friend, the consulting detective, doesn't come through."

"He will." Molly replied quickly. Her voice was shaky but it was there. "If you know who he is then you know it's just a matter of time."

"Yes, but how much time? No, no, I'm afraid he will need an incentive." He sneered, taking a step away and motioning for the other two men to pick her up. Molly didn't fight them, still trying to make the man believe that there was no need for any of it to go any further.

"Not a lot of time, I'm sure." Molly insisted. "Please, you really don't have to do this."

"Like I said, this is just an incentive." He shrugged, but there was something behind the movement that suggested anything but nonchalance. It was snakelike and eerie. Molly could feel her skin crawl. He swaggered over to her, and the men's grip on her arms tightened painfully. "And who says I do things because I have to?"

"But—"

"Take her to the Pit." He ordered, and Molly paled as she was pushed forward and out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stalked quickly and carefully through the unlit car park. He inspected the black four door car from the outside, as the doors were locked. The car was relatively clean, aside from small marks in the suede where a thin body had been laid on the back seat. Something akin to anger began building up inside him for the first time that night. Molly shouldn't be dragged into this, she was his pathologist. She worked behind the scenes; she wasn't at all prepared for this. He clenched his fists unconsciously.

He heard the heavy steps of two men coming in behind him and he whirled around in place. He faced two stocky men of average height, both having concealed weapons, one with a cat, the other's girlfriend was a stripper. Thinking quickly, he began speaking in an American accent. "Oh, hello! I got turned around on a walk. Can you point me back to the Blue Light Hotel? It's like a mile away, I think."

The two men simply stared at him, and Sherlock wondered if their combined IQ was even greater than one hundred. He tried again, with the same persona. "Hey, look. I don't want any trouble. I thought you English were supposed to be nice."

At this the man on the left, with a bodily smell that reeked of horrible hygiene habits, took out his gun and stepped closer to the detective. Sherlock stepped back and put his hands in front of him defensively. "W-what's that? I'm just a tourist. Don't you believe me?"

No response aside from two serious stares.

"No? Didn't think so." Sherlock switched back to his normal voice and disarmed the man with the gun, giving him a swift kick and bringing him down. The second man was a bit slow on the draw and Sherlock had the first's gun already trained on him. "Don't move."

The detective, however, had misinterpreted the first man's resistance to his assault. A strong force clobbered the back of his head, and Sherlock fell to the ground with a grunt of pain. The gun that had been in his hand went flying forward as he dropped like a stone in water. His head spun and he struggled to stay conscious. He attempted to get his arms underneath to push himself up. A foot found its way to the center of his back and pushed him back down, putting pressure and making it difficult to breath. The voices were speaking Serbian, but Sherlock caught the rough translation.

"What do we do with him?"

"We could dump him in the river."

"Didn't boss say to watch out for a tall guy in a coat?"

"Maybe. Let's bring him in."

The foot left his back and Sherlock was yanked up from the ground roughly by his shoulders. The one that picked him up steadied him and then pushed him forward to the warehouse building. "Let's go." The man said in English.

Sherlock stumbled, still feeling quite dizzy, but regained his balance enough to walk. He needed a plan, but a gun pointed at his back after a near concussion was not the most ideal of situations. So, he let the men guide him into the warehouse.

His quick senses picked up the little details of the place; his main focus was anything that would be useful when escaping. He was calculating the fourth possible escape route when one of the men clasped a meaty hand on his shoulder and pushed him on his knees. The other walked off to an office and returned with an older man with an authoritative manner, an expensive pistol tucked in his suit coat, and an affinity for fine food and gambling on horse races.

Sherlock's knees complained at the contact with the rough cement floor, but he remained still as the man approached. "Mr. Holmes. I did not expect to see you so soon." The man said with well faked friendliness.

"Well, you know, my schedule is busy, had to squeeze you in when I had the time, Ivan Davidovic." Sherlock replied sarcastically, using the man's name with disgust. The Serbian gang leader was well known in the police system for his elusive and cruel nature, and the arrest yesterday was one of the first steps to taking down his operations in London.

"Don't be like that." Davidovic reprimanded, with a predatory smile. He squatted down in front of him and began going through his pockets methodically. "Now, we have a problem. You were supposed to wait for my instructions and only after you had obtained the items I requested." The man pulled out Sherlock's pocketknife and mobile phone.

"Ah, here they are. Thank you." He stood up slowly, looking through the phone quickly before pocketing it. "This is your gallant attempt at rescuing our dear Miss Hooper? News I have heard of your reputation is surely exaggerated. You disappoint me, and I don't like being disappointed."

"Can't help that." Sherlock said, not losing any of his confidence. "You should talk to my brother. You'd get along splendidly."

Davidovic smiled predatorily and said. "Mr. Kovac. If you please."

'Mr. Kovac' must have known what his boss meant, and Sherlock had almost predicted it. A meaty fist landed in the middle of his gut and he doubled over with a grunt of pain.

"Now, Mr. Holmes. I am ever so confused as to why you thought showing up here was a good idea. Your lady doctor has been an…amusement for us. You will receive similar treatment, aside from a few of the more…intimate things, of course." Davidovic smirked as he crossed his arms and looked down his nose at the detective on the ground.

Sherlock let out a breath and rolled to sit up. He crossed his arms over his abdomen, his face a picture of disgust and anger. Molly threatened and God knows what else had been done to her. This man had to be stopped. Sherlock began speaking, his voice confident and dangerous. "You threaten me, you threaten my pathologist and you have asked me to reverse one of the most important cases I have solved this year. You underestimate me and what I am capable of when provoked."

After another look from Davidovic, the assistant brought the barrel of his pistol and smashed it into the detective's head, again. Sherlock fell to the ground with a mute cry. He lay still for a second before curling up on the ground. His vision blurred as consciousness wavered and he put his hands to the side of his head. Kovac took the opportunity to kick him in the ribs. Sherlock cried out as the boot connected, sending another shock wave of pain through his body. He lay on the ground, curled up and hoping the pain would fade. He could control the pain, he was here for a reason.

"Put him with the girl." Davidovic said before walking away. "I'll get to him shortly."

Sherlock couldn't see straight and did not struggle as he was yanked to his feet. The man, Kovac, forcibly dragged him down a flight of stairs. Sherlock's blurry vision made out a large barred door just before it was opened and he was thrown like a rag doll into a small dark room.

* * *

Molly could taste the blood in her mouth. It was coppery and foreign. She wondered vaguely if these people were especially trained for accuracy even where physical assault was concerned. They had to be. This man had succeeded in hitting the exact same spot on her face so many times that the skin over her cheekbone had split by the sheer repetitive force of his ring hitting her face.

Still, it was the kindest thing he'd done yet.

She turned her head to face the man who'd slapped her and glared. Molly wasn't a violent person. Never had been, but looking at this pathetic excuse for a man she couldn't help wishing that looks really could kill. The door opened then and a smallish, bearded man with a ghastly scar over one eye stepped just inside the room. Her attacker walked away from her and Molly welcomed the interruption, taking deep ragged breaths and blinking away the tears. Whether they were the product of anger, shame or fear, she couldn't say.

Maybe it was all of them at once, and the room, along with its portentous reminders of what could happen within its four walls only served to make matters worse.

The 'Pit', as they'd called it, was nothing more than a small chamber, with a slight slope towards the middle where a small drain was located. When Molly had been brought in, she'd noticed the rust colored stains on the floor, particularly dark and more frequent as they neared the drain itself. She'd panicked, and she'd put up a fight, hysterically struggling against the men who'd been holding her. She could only imagine the kinds of things that happened in a room like the one she'd been brought to, and she desperately wanted to avoid any of them happening to her.

Then they'd asked her to strip, and Molly hadn't taken kindly to it. Her refusal had earned her a ripped blouse, a sore face and an overwhelming amount of humiliation at the hands of these astonishingly cruel men. It could've been worse, but that didn't mean it wasn't bad enough on its own merits. Staring wide-eyed at the floor she recalled the experience with shallow gasps. No. She couldn't think about that now. Shaking her head once, Molly attempted to dispel those thoughts and focus.

The two men were standing by the door now, and Molly pulled on her restraints. She winced when they chafed against the skin on her wrists. They were talking in whispers, and Molly couldn't catch what they were saying. She knew they weren't looking for information, not from her, so she'd concluded there could only be one reason for them to work her over this way. It was meant to be a message.

"Bad news." The man told her, coming back and untying her hands. "Your knight in shining armor has arrived." He took her arm and raised her out the chair, shoving her forward and making her stumble. Molly used the momentum to turn herself around and propel herself forward, punching him in the face before he could do anything else.

"You bitch!" The man grabbed her torn shirt and pulled her over before she had a chance to attempt another punch.

"Jakov!" The man by the door called out when she'd been about to receive yet another slap. Maybe a punch. Nothing would surprise her at this point. "Ivan said now."

Jakov looked at her, openly glaring at her as if she was the sole reason behind the current interruption. She wasn't, but that didn't stop him from hitting her again and shoving her towards the door with another insult she couldn't quite understand. Molly staggered forward and clutched her blouse closed.

"This isn't over." He said ominously, but Molly was already being led out into the hallway and down to the dark room she'd originally woken up in. Once the door was open, she was pushed inside and she tumbled onto the floor with a slight whimper when her knees came into contact with the concrete. Again.

"Every single time." Molly muttered while she moved into a sitting position. She pulled her blouse closed and crossed her arms. It was still cold. They could've left her the coat at least, she thought sullenly. At this rate she could very well die down there before Sherlock even had a chance to find her.

Seconds later the door opened again and Molly jumped, unconsciously drawing her legs toward herself when the light flooded into the room. It took her a moment to recognize the tall shape that came into the square of light, but once she had, she was immediately on her feet. The door slammed shut, and Molly moved forward ready to catch him if he reeled again.

"Sherlock." She whispered, putting her hands out, hoping to find him in the darkness. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock wobbled and collapsed with a small grunt as he tried and failed to catch himself.

Molly followed the sound, finally touching his hair and quickly pulling her hand away. He was on the floor then. "Sorry." She sunk down next to him and reached out to touch him. Her hand connected with his shoulder. "What happened?"

Sherlock shifted under her touch as he let out several coughs. Eventually, he replied breathlessly. "Got a … warm welcome." He inhaled sharply as he moved, propping himself up on one of his arms. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yes." Molly replied, quickly drawing back her hand to pull her blouse closed for the third time. It was likely too dark for him to see anything, but Molly was embarrassed by what that man – Jakov, she thought with distaste – had done to her, though she wasn't sure why. All she knew was that she'd rather not have Sherlock see her like that. "I'm fine. Just a bit bruised, is all."

"Good." Was all Sherlock said as he made an attempt to stand. It took a bit of work, but eventually he was on his feet. He left Molly's immediate area and began taking inventory of the dark room.

"S-so what happens now?"

"We escape." He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right." Molly said weakly crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over the fabric of her blouse in order to drive away the cold. She walked over to the wall, sunk down to the floor with a small sigh and closed her eyes. "Anything I can do?"

"What did they do to you?" His voice came out of the darkness, asking a question instead of answering. Of course he knew.

"I'm fine." She said after some hesitation, not knowing how to describe it when she still felt so humiliated by it. She reminded herself that it could've been worse, especially if he hadn't shown up, but the feeling of shame was still there. "It's fine. I'd rather not talk about it."

Sherlock didn't respond. Molly could hear shuffling and the whoosh of his coat as he made his way around the room. He let out a frustrated forced exhale and sat down against the wall a few meters from her.

It was a few minutes before Molly could gather herself enough to speak again. She wanted to avoid it if she could since he was picking up on her tone with unsettling accuracy, but she was almost freezing cold. The situation called for it.

"I assume you're wearing a suit underneath that coat?" She asked tentatively.

"Well deduced." Came the sarcastic reply, but there was more shuffling in the dark and suddenly the heavy weight of the Belstaff landed on her legs.

"Thank you." Molly stood and slipped the coat on, the whole of it dwarfing her tiny frame. The warmth was a welcome respite from the cold, and Molly pulled it closer. She sat back down on the floor. "The suit coat would've been fine."

"Hmm." Sherlock said, probably lost in thought.

Molly didn't know what else to say. All she could think about was what had happened in the tiny room with the rust colored stains on the floor. The so-called 'Pit'. She couldn't get it out of her head, and no matter how much she wished she could. The slaps were one thing, and even the punches to her ribs she could handle, but the memory of that man's hands on her body was proving to be too much. Just thinking about him doing it again was enough to make her sick and she took a deep breath to calm herself down.

"We need to get out of here." She swallowed and closed her eyes, dropping her face into her hands. "If that man touches me again, I—I don't—I can't—"

She was panicking, and she knew she was panicking, but she couldn't stop herself. If that man came back she didn't know what she'd do. It would be worse, a lot worse, and now she didn't even have the luxury of hoping Sherlock would come and sort it all out, he was already here.

She could hear Sherlock shifting in the darkness, but he didn't move from his place in the corner. "He...touched you?" His voice was strangely hesitant but still unreadable.

"Yes. I just—I don't know why I'm here." She swallowed. "I can take the beatings, but not him touching me. Not like that." She shook her head and pursed her lips, squashing the increasingly hysterical feelings that kept bubbling up inside of her.

There were noises outside the door, and Molly jumped up from the floor taking several steps back. In the short time she'd been here, which in all honesty felt like a lifetime, she'd come to dread the opening and closing of that door. This time was no exception.

Jakov strode into the room, unaccompanied this time, and walked straight toward her. Molly frowned, studiously ignoring Sherlock as she stared at the man. He wouldn't walk in there like that unless he thought she was alone. It was a stupid move.

"Where's your prince charming?" He asked with a grin, stalking her further into the room and making her shuffle backwards. "Not here, is he?"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward. "Or maybe you just stayed around for the dungeon master?"

Molly barely had a moment to think before the man's hand was ripped away from her wrist and she was stumbling back.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had watched from the dark corner with measured patience. His first thought was that if he could play this right, they would have a way of escape. The second thought was how angry he was that the man was threatening Molly. Her reaction clued him in that this was the idiot that had violated her. No one messed with his pathologist.

Sherlock approached with the stealth and grace of a panther, such that the large Serbian man did not see it coming. The consulting detective ripped the meaty arm away from Molly and pushed her back and out of the way. He threw one punch to the broader man's jaw, shaking his now bruised knuckles once before placing both hands on Jakov's shoulders. He held the man down as he jabbed a sharp knee to the groin. The larger man dropped to the ground with a forced cry, clutching himself pathetically. Sherlock kicked him in the head, sending him sprawling and more than likely leaving him unconscious. He gave a satisfied nod at the limp body on the floor. That felt better than he would admit. Time to move.

Sherlock wasted no time grabbing Molly by the hand and dragging her out the open door into the lighted hallway, tapping the door closed. His analytical mind and attention to detail had already gathered the layout of the place, even if he only vaguely remembered the trip in. He took off to the left, down the long corridor. The concrete floor was dry and the bare walls made their footsteps echo a pitter-patter. But they were met with no opposition. His head ached, his ribs were probably bruised, but these were things that could wait. They had to escape, whatever the cost.

Still clutching her hand, he pulled them to a stop in the middle of the short staircase that would lead them out into the larger entry room. He backed them against the wall, as he studied the escape route that had much less cover than the hallway. He spoke low and quick, his voice full of determined confidence. "We've got to be quick. If we are being shot at, let go of my hand and run as fast as you can for the door. I needn't remind you of what these men are capable of."

"Right. Got it." Molly nodded and took a deep breath, slightly tightening her grip on his hand.

Sherlock assessed her now that they were in the light. Even sporting a headache, his brain never quit. Her experience with the gang could have been much worse, he deduced. However, under his coat, which draped her thin shoulders, he noticed the torn blouse. Bruises had already begun to form on her neck and face, which also housed dried blood from several abrasions. He frowned and turned back to the room, dismissing any useless thoughts and instead focusing on their escape.

Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled her along as he entered the room. Treading lightly, he kept an eye on the office where the men had materialized from earlier in the evening. His steps were hurried, and he was sure Molly's much shorter legs were struggling to keep up.

They were halfway across the room when his ears picked up the subtle shift of movement. Instinctively, he burst into a run, just moments before the first shot was fired. Regretfully he let go of Molly's hand so she'd be free to run and stayed just a step behind her as they sprinted for the door. His heart pounded and the familiar rush of adrenalin fueled him onward. They were almost there.

When he would think it over later, he would have thought he should have run harder. But his unconscious need to ensure Molly's safety kept him with her. It was also the thing that got him shot. They were three steps away from the door, two more seconds and they would have been free. He hadn't expected it this close to the door; they were quite a distance away from the shooters, and even for them the likelihood of hitting a running target was quite slim.

Pain. Sharp and at the same time, unfocused. Sherlock stumbled forward and bit back a cry as the bullet impacted him. He landed on one knee, bringing a hand immediately to the source of the blood. His knowledge of human anatomy told him exactly what was happening. _Gunshot wound to the lower left quadrant. Entry and exit wounds bleeding, but not squirting blood, no major arteries hit. Blood loss would still be a factor if delay in medical attention. Decreased blood meant decreased oxygen transport, which meant decreased brain function. Wound lower and away from the mid-line. Kidney unaffected. Intestines punctured. Infection and sepsis: probable outcomes. Bleeding out: still very likely in the immediate future if wound not tended to._ _Shock, within five minutes. _Everything happened in the second it took him to fall.

Pain. _Why was he here?_ Blood. _Were they still being shot at?_ Shock. _No, had to keep control. Had to get out. Had to get home._ His transport was rebelling. His brain couldn't get it working properly. He gasped as he tried to stand, desperate to get out of this place.

* * *

It was a technique she was intimately familiar with; focus on one step at a time, and the seemingly colossal task, though no smaller than it had been in the beginning, would seem to shrink into a manageable size. It was a coping mechanism, and one that Molly took firm hold of as they exited the dark room. Sherlock was quick and precise in his movements, and Molly marveled at the fact that he'd memorized the layout of the place.

It was a good thing he had; they're lives depended on it now.

Everything started moving faster then, and Molly had only a few minutes to pull herself together before they were walking across the entry room. Sherlock dragged her behind him, and Molly struggled to keep up, her eyes nervously darting around the room as they nearly sprinted to the exit. It was a pointless exercise, only fueling her panic when she noticed the few places they could hide should they need to, but her eyes insisted on taking it all in.

Even so, Molly never even caught the movement that made Sherlock propel her forward, release her hand and start sprinting, seconds before a shot rang out. It had spurred her into action, though, and she'd run as fast as she could towards the door, letting everything else fade away. They were so close to it now, Molly could almost feel herself relaxing, knowing they'd be out of this soon enough.

Then something happened. Molly refused to accept it even as she turned, almost on instinct, and grasped Sherlock with both hands, forcing him to his feet. She refused to acknowledge the blossoming red stain on his shirt, and the fact that she knew, even at a glance, what was likely happening to his body. _Get him out. Get him to a hospital. Don't stop. Whatever you do. Don't. Stop._

Molly managed to help him to his feet and they stumbled through the door, slamming it closed behind them before she stopped short. They needed a car. Now. She cast a panicked look around, spotting a familiar looking car not too far away from where they were and Molly moved toward it, taking some of Sherlock's weight as he began to weaken from the blood loss. She looked at him and felt herself freezing as fear started taking hold of her. _Move. Don't stop. _

Snapping herself out of her thoughts, they hobbled forward until they were close enough to settle him into the passenger seat and for her to slide behind the wheel of the car. She noticed her hands were shaking as she reached to put the missing key into the car. Key, of course. Find the key. Sherlock drove himself here; maybe he had the key himself. She started to lean over to search him, when she remembered she was wearing his coat. _Focus. Get the key. Get him to the hospital. Don't stop moving. _Molly reached her hands into the coat's pockets, pulling out the key with a shaking hand and starting the car.

She pulled the car out into the street and drove them to the hospital. She wasn't sure how she'd managed it, the entire sequence of events since the shooting blurring into one continuous stream of fear, panic and determination, but she had. She couldn't dwell on anything else now, however, because Sherlock was being wheeled away from her and she struggled with herself not to follow behind him like she'd seen family members do when their loved ones were being wheeled away from them. It was pointless, and Sherlock would scoff at it deeming it illogical, but Molly couldn't help taking a few steps his way.

She didn't get very far, the medical personnel asking her what had happened. Telling her she needed stay calm, that everything would be fine, he was in good hands. They would do everything in their power to help him, but she needed to get herself checked. Again, they asked her what had happened, but Molly was still too stunned to use her voice. It was the usual speech, the routine, and Molly was all too familiar with it already.

Molly was asked the usual questions, and put through the usual tests. The question about being raped gave her pause, but she answered with a minuscule shake of her head. She'd been lucky. When they were done with her, she was asked to wait for the Yard; they'd be sending someone over to ask her some questions. Molly wasn't sure about what she should or shouldn't say, but she couldn't think about it at the moment. Instead, she found a payphone and dialed the only number she could think of.

"Molly." John's voice was clear across the line, and Molly choked back a sob. "Everything alright?"

"No." She managed to say shakily. "Sherlock's been shot. We're at the hospital now, they've taken him into surgery but I—" She took shallow breaths, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"Molly, I need you to calm down and explain what happened. Take a _deep _breath." John had slipped into his role as a doctor almost immediately and Molly obeyed. She explained everything, from the kidnapping to the rescue, down to the shower of bullets that had landed Sherlock in the hospital.

"They're sending someone over from the Yard, and I don't—"

"I'm on my way." John interrupted. Molly could hear him moving around through the phone, and she cleared her throat. He sighed. "Sit tight."

"Alright." Molly nodded; even knowing he couldn't see her. "I'm so sorry, John."

"Molly, listen to me." John's voice had taken on that tone again. "None of this is your fault. Understand? I'll be there as soon as I can."

They hung up, and Molly stared at the phone for a minute before she started pacing the waiting room. The man from the Yard was nice enough; Molly gave him her statement but kept it vague, still unsure about how much Sherlock would want them to know. He'd eyed her with no small amount of suspicion, and Molly was sure he could tell she wasn't telling him the entire story, but she hadn't worked this long with Sherlock Holmes without some things rubbing off. She stared the man down, her face impassive, and he'd quickly left her to her own devices.

It was hours before Sherlock was finally wheeled out of surgery, and Molly breathed a sigh of relief the moment she was able to see him. She stepped inside the small room and closed the door behind her, taking a few tentative steps in his direction. He was still apparently asleep, and feeling herself alone in the room, Molly let herself finally break down. The stupid idiot had almost gotten himself killed trying to save her. She could kill him, and she probably would kill him, as soon as he woke up.

Molly wiped her cheeks when she felt him stir. It was one thing to see him lying there, being told he was alive but not able to talk to him and see it for herself. It was something else entirely to see him moving, _alive_, existing, and still _there_ with her. It was overwhelming, and Molly didn't have time to think through her actions before she'd closed the space between them and kissed him, her mouth firmly pressed against his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

"_Excuse me, ma'am, you'll have to step back." _

"_Patient is male, early thirties. Gunshot wound to lower left quadrant. Intestinal damage, losing blood, partially conscious."_

"_I need two IVs going! And get these clothes off quickly."_

"_Allergy to penicillin? Good…get a bag of amoxicillin started."_

"_BP is 79/44. Pulse 128. Respiratory rate 11."_

"_Get this blood off to lab…all inclusive trauma panel, add blood cultures, lactate and CK, and a type and cross for two…no make it four units, just in case." _

"_Where's Respiratory? We need ABGs now." _

"_When will Doctor Young be ready? Good, let's get him rolled to Pre-Op. Tell Imagining to meet us there." _

"_Here son, breathe deeply into the mask. Keep breathing, that's it…" _

Sherlock's brain was the first thing to regain a sense of focus. His mind began going through the fuzzy memories of the events that had brought him to this place. At first he was confused. Sounds and smells, of course, he was in hospital. He was also heavily drugged, morphine if he remembered the sensation correctly. Sore throat, indicative of a ventilator tube. Bare torso, tightness on his abdomen, stitches. Surgery after the gunshot, obviously.

His body was finally catching up with his mind and he moved his head, working on getting his eyes open. The next event took him completely by surprise, which got the credit for waking him up completely.

His eyes flew open immediately to assess the situation. Molly Hooper was kissing him. He couldn't fathom why and struggled to understand the event. Her lips were soft but demanding. Her nose pressed against his nose and the nasal cannula delivering oxygen to it. It was interesting, experimental, slightly uncomfortable and almost enjoyable. He hadn't ever considered the possible pleasantries of kissing Molly, or maybe he had and deleted them? Nevertheless, he still had been startled and pulled back as far as he could into the pillow under his head.

Wide dilated brown eyes met his confused blue ones. She panicked, clearly distressed at her actions. She stammered unintelligible nonsense until the well-timed arrival of John Watson. The doctor stood just inside the doorway, wearing a haggard expression on his face. Sherlock deduced he hadn't slept, ate half of a prepackaged sandwich and had been traveling all night.

John's eyes flitted back and forth between the two people in the room. That was the final straw that sent Molly scampering away. Again she mumbled something about being out in the waiting area and disappeared out the door.

Sherlock glanced towards the door in confusion before looking at John. "I thought you said you'd be gone until Wednesday?"

John's expression darkened. "You are a complete idiot. Molly called me last night. You were shot, I needed to be here."

"Yes, I was." Sherlock said, fiddling with the pulse oximeter on his pointer finger. "And as you can see, I am perfectly fine."

"I can see that." John stepped closer to the bed and crossed his arms. "She told me what happened, Sherlock."

"Glad you're up to speed. I, ah…" Sherlock groaned as he shifted in the bed, pulling on his stitches as he tried to sit up. "I got us out."

John unfolded his arms and clenched his fists at his sides. "And in the meantime you got yourself shot. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad Molly is safe, but you could have called me, or even Lestrade."

Sherlock didn't know why John was so upset, and decided to try a different tactic. "The gang is still out there, John. The Yard may have enough evidence to take them down, especially with what happened last night, but they are still dangerous."

"You are in no position to go arrest a Serbian gang. I won't let you." John was worried, Sherlock could tell and it was annoying.

Sherlock frowned tightly. "Fine, I'm sure the police will manage. I did hand them the evidence on a silver platter, this whole experience is just icing on the cake." He gestured to himself with one hand, the IV line moving as he did.

"I would not call it that." John's voice was flat, as if he were trying to hide something.

"Then what would you call it?"

"Molly was kidnapped and nearly…and you were beaten and shot. And don't argue about the beatings, I can see the bruises on both of you. I don't need to be a doctor or a bloody detective to understand what happened there!"

Sherlock's head shifted backwards in shock at John's minor outburst. John was hesitant and then worried and then agitated. Sherlock read it on his face, trying to understand how so many emotions could be portrayed in fifteen seconds of dialogue. He shook his head subtly and said. "What difference does it make what happened there? We're out."

"It seemed to make a difference to Molly. I would hope you could at least remember that." John said stubbornly.

Sherlock frowned and didn't respond.

"Never mind. I'm going to talk to your surgeon. Stay here." John walked towards the door, giving him one glance over his shoulder before walking out.

Sherlock lay back on the pillows with a huff. Alone at last. Isn't that what he wanted? He needed to think and visitors always wanted to chat or something equally as distracting. His mind flew back to his wake up call and he crinkled his nose at the memory. Caring about people wouldn't keep them safe. Caring got in the way of work. Work kept his mind occupied and challenged him. Caring and romance simply were not beneficial for any logical thought process. All hearts were broken. Molly knew that. Of course she did, and he would not have talk about it with her. He was satisfied by his conclusion and closed his eyes, momentarily enjoying the painless doze that left his mind free to think.

* * *

_Alright, so she'd kissed him_. Molly inhaled sharply and let it go, resuming her pacing in the hospital waiting room. _It would be awkward, but he could hardly fault her for it. She'd been kidnapped. He'd saved her. Nearly died in the process. It was natural. It wasn't her fault._ She stopped her pacing and pinched her eyes closed with a small groan.

"Who am I kidding?" She muttered quietly. Even if it hadn't been her fault, she couldn't shake the memory from her head. She didn't regret it, _couldn't_ regret it, and that alone was enough to make her feel guilty and embarrassed about her behavior. Because she was sure that, especially given his reaction, she'd stepped over a line.

"Molly?" Molly jumped, her body tensing up instinctively when she felt John place a hand on her shoulder. He removed it immediately. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Molly assured him, turning around to face him and forcing a smile. She pulled Sherlock's coat closed and buttoned it quickly. John noticed, but he didn't say anything and Molly was grateful. "Just a little jumpy."

"No, I understand." John nodded, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "I shouldn't have—"

"How is he?" She interrupted, moving over to one of the waiting room chairs and taking a seat. It was a relief to be off her feet, and she tried to remember if she'd sat down at all since arriving at the hospital. No, she hadn't.

"I talked to the surgeon." John replied after a pause, moving over to sit next to her but keeping a slight distance. He was giving her space, and she both appreciated the gesture and was self-conscious by what was causing it. "He'll live to annoy the living daylights out of us for a while longer."

Molly chuckled at his reply, clasping her hands on her lap and staring at them. You could always count on John to make your gloomy mood just a little lighter.

John nodded with a small smile on his face. "Dr. Young said the surgery went very smooth for as traumatic as the injury was, they repaired the damage and Sherlock will have no real lasting effects, he was lucky. Sherlock's white blood cell count is still a little high, so they are worried about infection, possible sepsis, but they won't know for sure until the blood cultures come back negative. They have him on broad-spectrum antibiotics as a precautionary measure. He should stay here at least three days, which also depends how well he's adjusting getting in and out of the bed and other basic movement. The nurse should be around later to help him get moving."

"That's good, at least." Molly looked up at him. "What about the gang?"

"The police will handle it." John replied, cautiously looking her over. He was worried, she could tell as much, but she didn't know how to put him at ease. It was likely her behavior that was setting him off. Calm one minute, but skittish if he came too close. She didn't know how to rectify it. "Don't worry about that."

"I'm not." Molly insisted, wishing she could just put the whole event behind her and forget it ever happened. Except, maybe one thing, but she wouldn't think about that now. "I'm fine. Really."

"Molly, you're not fine." John said firmly, almost reaching to take her hand but thinking better of it. "You'll get help, won't you?"

"Like a therapist?" Molly asked giving him a confused look before shaking her head. "No, I'd rather not."

"It'll help, trust me, when I—"

"I said no." Molly snapped at him, quickly regretting it when he was just trying to be helpful. "I'm sorry, I just—" She shook her head, swallowing back the sudden lump of emotion in her throat. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"I won't press you." John replied gently, nodding once before standing up and looking her over. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please." Molly nodded and John walked out of the waiting room, leaving her to think things over.

Molly's thoughts drifted back to her curious reaction to John's touch as opposed to Sherlock's. He'd held her hand while they'd been trying to escape and she'd gone as far as kissing him afterwards without so much as a flinch. It was odd, but Molly supposed it had something to do with the circumstances.

After what happened to her, she associated any contact she had with Sherlock with rescue and safety and relief. That wouldn't be the case with anyone else, however, not for a while, and it made her heart ache. She needed to come to terms with what had happened, not just to her but to both of them, and she needed to heal, in order to move on. Maybe John was right. A therapist would do her good, or at the very least, give her a safe place to deal with what was happening to her. Since talking about it with Sherlock seemed to be out of the question, and she couldn't handle opening up to John that way, a therapist seemed like the best solution.

"Thank you." Molly gave John a small smile when he came back and handed her the coffee.

"Any time." He assured her with a nod. "Do you want to see him again?"

Molly hesitated, but finally shook her head and stood up. "I think I want to be alone for a bit."

"Right." John studied her face for a few seconds before smiling and assenting with his head. "Call if you need anything."

"I will."

John kept her company while she finished her coffee and walked her out when her cab arrived. She had a lot to think about before she could see Sherlock again, and maybe some time apart would provide a little clarity.

Or at the very least, allow her heart to settle down inside her chest.


	5. Chapter 5

_**NOTE: Greetings fellow Sherlockians!**_

_So, this is Angie again. _

_We've come to the final chapter. 'I'm in shock. Look. I've got a blanket.'_

_No, but seriously. Grace and I wanted to thank you all for reading and for all your lovely (and thoughtful reviews). We've enjoyed writing this so much, so it's very exciting to know that you've all enjoyed reading it too (especially since we're already working on the sequel)._

_Now, without further ado, 'let's talk about murder. Sorry, did I say murder? I meant…' the final chapter. :D_

_Hope you like it!_

* * *

Sherlock carefully extracted himself from the backseat of the taxi. Four days of hospital food, annoying doctors, cranky nurses, demanding physical therapists and pushy phlebotomists left him anxious to get out of there. He had been ready to leave a few hours after waking up, but his pesky brother and pushy flat mate refused. Complaining hadn't worked, being rude hadn't worked, manipulation hadn't worked. He had run out of options quickly, and it had made him angry.

Lestrade came to visit once, and left after a short, rather boring, conversation and a look of disappointment that Sherlock hadn't been drugged up enough to video. Mycroft stopped by as well, waltzing in with his umbrella as if he owned the place. Close enough. Mrs. Hudson came by once to bring flowers and biscuits. She left in a teary hurry for some reason. John really hadn't left, only to sleep and grab food, and once after becoming extremely angry. Sherlock didn't know why. Other than that, he had no visitors, a fact he had been grateful for. For the most part.

Sherlock had noticed the distinct absence of Molly. The pathologist had been elusive since she scampered away from his bedside in embarrassment. Not that he minded, he had told himself. It was only that she escaped with his coat.

Now he stood on the pavement with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at his flat as John paid the cabbie. The doctor approached from behind, more than likely giving him the same worried look that had become the usual over the last few days. It annoyed him. John said. "Sherlock, you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock said, beginning his walk to the front door.

John's eye roll was almost audible. "Because you got shot four days ago."

"Why does everyone keep bringing that up?" Sherlock asked, stepping inside. "Its old news."

Another eye roll.

Sherlock ignored that and walked, quite slowly, up the stairs. One glance around told him just how little time John had spent here. Mrs. Hudson had cleaned, missing the top shelf of the bookcases, as was the usual.

"I just planned on bringing home take-away tonight instead of making something, that okay?" John said as he moved to turn on the kettle. So predictable.

"Yes, that's fine." Sherlock took off the coat he had been forced to borrow from John. He'd need to text Molly soon. He lowered himself into his chair, putting his elbows on the arm rests and his hands in the prayer position he closed his eyes in thought. "John. My laptop."

The doctor would purse his lips in minor frustration, take two seconds of contemplation before walking over to pick up the computer from the table. Soon the computer dropped gently into his lap and Sherlock smirked in victory. He deftly opened the lid and began going through emails. Most were potential clients whose cases ranked from zero to about five and something he could solve from his chair. Dull. Perhaps Lestrade would call instead.

The kettle boiled, the tea steeped, and John placed a warm cuppa on a tray for him. Sherlock nodded once to acknowledge its presence and continued typing the replies to the client's emails. It would keep him occupied for a time.

* * *

Molly walked up to the door and knocked. She smoothed the neatly folded coat over her arm and looked down at her feet while she waited, trying to calm her nerves.

She hadn't seen Sherlock since she'd left the hospital the night he'd been shot. Shot saving_ her_, she reminded herself. That was four days ago already. She'd known the right thing to do was to go back and see him, if only to convey her gratitude, but the thought of facing him after everything that happened had been more than she could deal with. Time to process the experience and come to terms with it had been necessary, there was no getting around it.

"Molly? Molly, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson's warm, motherly voice interrupted her thoughts and she raised her eyes to look her.

"Oh!" Molly laughed nervously and shook her head. "Yes, sorry, just a bit distracted."

"I know, I heard that awful business with the gang. Honestly, a good girl like you shouldn't be dragged into these kinds of things, and I've told him over and over." She said this in a whisper, ushering her inside and closing the door. She nodded towards the stairs. "He's been expecting you, I think."

"I have his coat." Molly explained with a nod, fidgeting with her hair. "He's up then? I can go see him?"

"Oh, yes dear, go right up." Mrs. Hudson smiled bustling back into her kitchen. "I'll be there in a few with tea and a plate of something to nibble on."

Molly smiled, turning to look at the stairs with growing apprehension. She considered just leaving the coat with Mrs. Hudson and bolting, but even the thought of it was cowardly, and Molly Hooper could be many things, but she was certainly not a coward.

She started up the stairs, keeping her steps quick so that she wouldn't be tempted to stop and turn around.

"Sherlock?" Molly entered the living room, knowing she'd likely find him in his usual spot. She cleared her throat and attempted a smile. "I have your coat."

"That you do." Sherlock said, opening his eyes from his chair and looking at her with the usual calculating gaze. His laptop had been discarded along with a pile of papers that sat precariously on the stand next to his chair.

Molly nodded, pursing her lips and walking over to place the coat on his lap. She felt oddly exposed without the weight of it on her arm. "I wanted to give it back sooner, I just..." She trailed off, removing her own coat and taking a seat in John's chair. "I suppose I needed a little time." She paused to look him over. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock removed his hands from the prayer position in front of his face and absently smoothed out the fabric of the coat. "I'm...fine." He was at least attempting politeness. "You appear to be doing better."

"I am." There was a long pause while she gathered enough courage to look up and meet his eyes. "I wanted to thank you, and apologize."

"Apologize?" He asked with the slightest tilt of his head.

"Yes, apologize." Molly fidgeted with her hair again before continuing. "You saved me, and then I kissed you, and I probably shouldn't have. No, I definitely shouldn't have." She cleared her throat and looked around to make sure they were still alone. "I'm sorry about that, I was just a little… overwhelmed, I think."

Sherlock hesitated. "It's fine. Under the circumstances and the emotional state you were in, it wasn't that surprising."

"Right." Molly blushed, not sure how she should proceed with the conversation after that. "Thank you, for understanding." She looked back towards the doorway, hoping Mrs. Hudson would show herself soon and save her from further embarrassment. "Did they ever arrest those men?"

"Lestrade sent a text. It should be on the news tonight." Sherlock motioned to the television. He found the remote and clicked it on, before discarding it on the pile of papers that sat on his laptop.

Molly nodded in reply and turned to watch, feeling a wave of relief come over her when she heard John's unmistakable footsteps on the stairs. A second later he popped into the living room, brown paper bags in hand. Molly looked away from the telly to smile at him in greeting.

"Oh, hello." He greeted with a smile of his own, moving into the kitchen and setting the bags down on the table before walking back into the living room. He cast a brief glance at the television and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're feeling better then?"

John was asking Molly but he was discreetly looking Sherlock over with a concerned look on his face. He was still worried then, and Molly found herself looking over at Sherlock with an equally concerned expression before she answered.

"I am." She conceded, taking in Sherlock's distinctive profile and sharp blue eyes. She blushed and tore her eyes away from Sherlock when she realized it was still too embarrassing to look at him face to face. "I'm going to take your advice, I think."

"Good." John nodded, finally looking at her and giving her a reassuring smile. He was still keeping his distance, and Molly thought it was probably for the best. At least until she could get herself sorted. "Let me know if you need anything."

He turned to look at Sherlock. "I got takeaway, and you need to eat something."

"Mmhmm." Sherlock said distractedly as the news came on. His eyes were glued to the screen, catching every detail and scrap of information. Images of police cars with their lights on, a news lady who spoke of the break in the case against one of the most vicious gang leaders in London, the camera cutting to the arrest, Lestrade giving his statement to the press all flashed on the screen. The detective inspector didn't mention Sherlock by name, but acknowledged the help he received from an outside source.

Molly didn't bother looking at the news, familiar enough with the routine from seeing Sherlock's other cases closed and handed over to the Yard in a similar manner. Just hearing it, she could almost predict exactly what she'd see on the screen, so instead she focused on the man in front of her again. He'd always been a sort of puzzle to her, but never more so than at that moment.

Once the news had switched to the weather, Sherlock picked up the remote and turned the television off. Molly quickly averted her eyes and stared at her hands. He stood, a bit slower than usual, and smoothed out the wrinkles from his dressing gown. He cleared his throat once before saying. "Molly, would you like to stay for dinner?"

She'd been about to say that she was leaving but Sherlock's offer made her hesitate. Had she heard him right? It spoke volumes that Sherlock was willing to let the kissing incident go and ask her to stay outright. It felt almost like...friendship. Molly smiled.

"Dinner sounds lovely."

**The beginning. **


End file.
